


The Sound of Your Voice

by avintagekiss24



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Sam Wilson, Fight Scenes, Friends With Benefits, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, No Refractory Period, Oral Sex, Sex, Smut, Steve Rogers lives on a farm, Top Steve Rogers, Touch-Starved, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, steve rogers has a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avintagekiss24/pseuds/avintagekiss24
Summary: The memory starts to fade away as the fog in Bucky’s brain starts to dissipate. He grunts softly as his body pains start to break through his subconscious. He rolls his head slowly as he swallows, more pain ripping through him at the feeling of his dry, scratchy throat. He tries to open his eyes, but the blinding light from above makes him slam them shut again. He goes to sit up, but his body gives up, not finding the strength.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 96
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	The Sound of Your Voice

**Author's Note:**

> For the Not Another Stucky Big Bang. My artist was levicastho! Hope you guys enjoy!!  
> You can find me on tumblr (avintagekiss24) if you're into that kind of thing.

_Serbia, Russia_

“Another successful mission, Soldat.” 

Soldat blinks back at the random man in the lab coat. He opens his mouth instinctively as a mouth guard is crudely inserted and leans back into the cold, black chair. The metal clamp closes over his flesh arm, before the other closes over his metal one. His breath quickens— escaping his mouth hard and heavy. He grits down on the rubber inside of his mouth as he blinks furiously at the ceiling. His whole body starts to tense— his hands ball into fists, veins popping out all over his body. He swallows hard before he starts to grunt from the anticipation and adrenaline coursing through his veins. In mere minutes, he’ll cease to exist for only God knows how long.

Just as the metal arms swing down around his head, the room goes dark. German voices start to sound around him as he glances around, all wondering what was happening. Red lights start to flash, a siren starts to blare throughout the underground bunker. Hurried feet start moving around him, rushing out of the room as a loud boom explodes from somewhere deep in the building. 

_Get up._

He blinks furiously as he rolls his head back and forth, watching as the bunker dissolves into complete chaos. The double doors swing back and forth, giving quick glimpses of Hydra agents and scientists alike running about, screaming orders. Guns are cocked, bullets are soon fired, bodies start hitting the ground. 

_Now’s your chance. Get up. Now._

He pushes his metal arm against the clamp— pushing, pushing, pushing until it pops open. He keeps his frenzied eyes on the doors as he starts to rip at the second clamp over his flesh arm with his metal fingers. His breath is still hard and fast as he pulls with every ounce of strength he can muster. It finally breaks clear off the chair. He throws it across the room as he stands and faces the double door. 

_Go. Now._

He takes a few quick steps towards the doors and pushes through them without a second thought. He ducks quickly as gunfire erupts around him, but his feet never stop moving. He pushes down the hall quickly, his vision tunnelling as the red lights continue to flash around him. He bursts through another set of doors and stops abruptly as he steps onto the main floor. 

Bodies litter the ground as the other five Winter Soldiers wreak havoc in the facilities. He ducks again as a body flies past him, slamming into the wall. More gunshots ring through the air as he moves forward, pushing through the horde of people. 

“Halte ihn jetzt auf!” _(Stop him, now!)_

He whips his head towards the voice as two Hydra agents rush towards him. He grabs the first by the arm, pulling him roughly into him before throwing him into the jail like cells to the left of where they stand. The second man fires at him but he lifts his metal hand to shield his face. The bullets bounce off with ease as he rushes forward, grabbing the man. He disarms him quickly, ripping the handgun from his hands before landing a swift punch to the man's face. He throws the agent to the side and takes off towards the main door again, not wanting to waste anymore precious time. 

He kicks the door once, twice, three times before it breaks open, slamming against the wall. He steps out into the snow, his skin instantly chilling to the bone as the cold whips around him. The other soldiers brush past him within seconds of the door being opened, having taken care of each and every Hydra agent guarding the facility. Not one hesitates. They all take off on foot, each in a different direction, their feet crunching in the snow as they move towards the tree line. 

He takes off right behind them. He only stops once he reaches the trees, turning back to watch as more agents descend upon the hidden bunker. He blinks a few times, and then turns on his heel and takes off running again. 

_Don’t stop._

_Keep going._

_Don’t stop._

\----------

Soldat clutches his knife in the palm of his hand as he hides behind a stack of wooden pallets. He peeks around the corner of them, spying a few airmen pushing crates into the belly of a large carrier airplane. They argue back and forth in Russian, then burst into laughter before they deplane to push more crates into it. 

It’s pouring rain. Soldat’s hair is matted to his head, random clumped strands falling in his eyes. He shivers hard as he grits his teeth, the cold air and water cutting him to the quick. His stomach growls— his throat is dry. He’s been out too long. His brain is starting to recognize the bare necessities his body needs to keep it going. He needs to… eat? Drink something? 

No time for that.

He slips out from behind the pallets shielding his presence and sprints for the shadows that the buildings around him provide. He eyes one, two, three, four airmen, plus two pilots already in the cockpit, strapping in and doing their checks. He cuts his eyes back towards the open bay of the plane and is on the move again, skirting across the runway before he sneaks around the side. 

Soldat catches the first airmen completely by surprise, which disgusts him. He’s obviously military of some kind, a handgun strapped around his waist, a knife tucked in it’s sheath around his leg. No awareness, no alertness to his surroundings. _Useless_. He stands just outside the plane, his head tilted down as he lit his cigarette and spun his umbrella slowly on his shoulder. Soldat throws his arm over the unsuspecting mans’ shoulder, pressing his knife into the taut flesh of his neck. 

“Тихо.” _(Quiet)_ He growls into his ear, watching as the cigarette falls to the ground. 

He grabs for the mans’ gun, pulling it from its holster before he pushes the terrified man around to the open end of the plane. He raises the gun as they move up the ramp and into the belly where the other three men are just finishing strapping in the last of their load. Soldat cocks his head as he readjusts his grip on the butt of the gun, his metal finger on the trigger. 

When the men turn, Soldat starts to fire. Before they even know what’s happening, their life flashes before their eyes— and then they drop. Instant black. He finishes off the man in his grip, bright red blood spilling onto his flesh hand as the arteries in his neck tear open. He drops him and rushes towards the front of the plane just as the pilots come pushing through the door. 

Soldat lifts his gun again, pressing it into one of their faces. He squints, his breathing deep as he stares back into two pairs of wide, scared eyes. He doesn’t have to say a word. They both turn and slam the door shut, locking it tight before the engines and propellers start to roar minutes later. 

Soldat turns, watching over his shoulder as the ramp and door start to automatically close, soft red lights illuminating overhead as darkness closes in. He sits along the side of the plane, strapping the belts over his chest and around his middle, but keeps his pistol gripped tight in his hand. He sits up straight, hands on his thighs, and stares straight ahead as the plane starts to roll down the runway. 

He blinks slowly as the speed picks up, his weight pushing back into the side of the plane before he shifts to the side as they start their ascent into the sky. He blinks again. His stomach growls. He tightens his grip on his gun. He grits his teeth as strange thoughts start to cloud his brain.

He’s been out too long. 

\----------

Soldat has secured a light, zip up sweatshirt— more to cover his metal arm than to shield his body from the intense cold. He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. The brim of an old, tattered hat covers his eyes as he moves seamlessly through the Romanian streets. He doesn’t know where he is, _exactly_ , but it’s familiar to him. He’s been here before.

It’s been a few days (maybe) since he’s escaped Russia. He’s stopped only long enough to catch glimpses of news reports that start to circulate around the world of these strange, dangerous spy-like soldiers wreaking havoc in random cities. Grainy pictures of the Winter Soldiers pop up in newspapers and on the international tv reports, but never one of him. 

Until today. 

The image brings him to a complete halt as he stares at his face looking back at him. He tilts his head, blinking at the newspaper. His lips part as quick, fragmented images of blonde hair, pink lips, and blue eyes flash before his eyes. A laugh sounds in his brain and then a voice, _hey punk_ …

Soldat closes his eyes, shaking his head, removing the confusing… memories? He opens his eyes again and reaches for the paper, plucking it from its spot and takes off again, ignoring the screams of the stand owner. When he feels a hand on his shoulder, he grabs it quickly, twisting it hard before he flips the man over his shoulder, slamming him to the ground. People stop, gasping and screaming around the two of them— the only thing that breaks Soldat’s intense concentration.

He blinks and then glances around as people stare at him in horror. _You don’t have to kill everybody. Keep moving._ He blinks in rapid succession at the unfamiliar voice invading his head. He’s been out too goddamn long. He turns back on his heel and pushes through the crowd of people, dropping his head again as he moves quickly down the street and out of sight. He dips into an alley and moves through it to get to an opposite street, one where no one is wise to the police activity building on the street next to them. 

His stomach growls. He clears his hoarse throat, swallowing hard and coughing as his own saliva stings the canal. _Eat. Drink something._ He walks until he finds a small fruit stand, full of deep purple plums, bright red strawberries, and yellow bananas and assorted breads. Bottles of water line the cart and it just so happens, the cart keeper is busy entertaining a fair skinned, smiling brunette. 

Soldat strikes quickly, filling his pockets with plums and snagging a bottle of water, all while keeping his eyes across the cart as the keeper flirts aimlessly, mere inches away. He grabs a loaf of bread and a hand of bananas before he’s moving down the street again, his head low, his eyes on his feet. The sun will be setting soon. He needs to find shelter.

He spends the rest of the afternoon scoping out a small, seemingly abandoned apartment. There’s been no movement in or out, or even around it for hours. He breaks the small window with his hand, turning and sending his eyes back towards the street as he reaches up and unlocks it. He slides it open and crawls inside, scanning the dark kitchen and living room before he moves towards the light switches on the wall.

With one flick, the kitchen is illuminated, the soft light spilling into the rest of the apartment. A lumpy red couch is pushed up against the wall, a small wooden table next to it. A bare mattress is thrown into the middle of the room and there’s a broken tv set, flipped on its side in the corner. He takes a step and the floor creaks, halting him immediately. He stares at the main door, expecting it to come flying open at any moment. He grips his knife hard in his pocket as he blinks slowly, but the door never opens. 

Soldat relaxes. 

He moves into the middle of the open living/bedroom/kitchen and pushes the old mattress up against the wall, underneath the window. He sits on the floor, crossing his legs as he carefully spreads out the pages of the newspaper in front of him. He skims his eyes over the Romanian paper, running his fingers lightly over the thin material before he pulls out his breakfast, lunch, and dinner from his pockets. He rips off a piece of bread and shoves it into his mouth as he starts to devour the article about him and the other five Winter Soldiers. 

_This final soldier is believed to be James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917 in Shelbyville, Indiana. Barnes was the oldest of four. The Barnes family relocated to Brooklyn, New York in 1927, where it is believed to be where he met the future Captain America, Steven Grant Rogers._

Soldat stops chewing as he reads the name over and over and over again. James Buchanan Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. Is he… he looks over the picture again. It’s old, the picture. He’s dressed in a military uniform, a peaked cap on his head, a smile on his face. It’s his face, but the name attached to it is foreign to him— the name. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917 in Shelbyville, Indiana.

He skips down to the next name, reading it slowly as he bites into a plum. _Steven Grant Rogers_. He chews slowly as he lets his eyes drift away from the page and to the wooden floor below him. Steven Grant Rogers. The soft voice returns to his head seconds later, _hey jerk_. The lips are back, a quick glimpse of them as they curl into a smile and then… fingers, long, thin fingers sweeping wispy blonde hair off of a forehead. 

Soldat blinks; and it’s all gone again. The soft voice, the visions of the pink lips and the fingers— lost in the depths of his fragmented, tormented brain. Irrational anger flashes through him as he slams his fist into the floor with his metal hand, punching straight through it. He’s been out to goddamn long; he doesn’t like it. He crumbles the pages of the newspaper up in his hands, throwing the now ripped, balled up paper to the other side of the room. 

He stares at the floor, his chest heaving as anger blooms across his skin, turning it red as his body temperature rises. He grinds his teeth against each other, his jaw tensing hard as he balls his fists in his lap. He is not James Buchanan Barnes, not anymore. The name Steven Grant Rogers means _nothing_ to him. _Not anymore._

He finishes off his bread, and a few more plums before he downs the entire bottle of water. He wipes at his mouth with his sleeve before he stands and moves back into the kitchen, refilling the bottle to place it in the somehow still functioning refrigerator. He treads back towards the mattress as the moonlight spills over it from the window and falls onto it, the exhaustion of being awake for over seventy two hours suddenly crashing in on him.

He pulls out the handgun from the back of his waistband and checks it quickly; chambering a single bullet before he slips it underneath the mattress. He lays down, on his back, and palms his knife in his hand as he stares up at the ceiling, just blinking. He’s not sure how long it takes him to feel comfortable enough to close his eyes, but he gives into the nagging feeling of sleep _naturally_ for the first time in nearly fifty years. 

\----------

_“Buck, slow down baby.”_

_He can’t slow down, he doesn’t want to. His hands sink into the blondes’ pants, grabbing his warmth in his palm. When he hears the other man gasp and then moan, he growls in response, crashing his lips to his._

_He kisses the blonde hard, hungrily, the excitement and lust swelling in his chest as he presses the much smaller man up against the wall. He feels hands sink into his dark hair, gripping and pulling as a tongue slithers into his mouth. The soft velvet runs along the roof of his mouth, before it slides along his own, massaging it gently._

_When they break apart, they are both out of breath. They rest their heads against one anothers, mouths still open, his hand still wrapped around the others most intimate. He pumps his hand, slowly, dragging his eyes up to swim within other ocean blues, now closed to slits as his head pushes up the wall._

_“Buck, God,” the smaller man pants, gripping the back of his head, “Shit, baby, you feel so good.”_

_“Say it,” Bucky pushes out in a huff, “Say it Stevie, please. I wanna -”_

_“I love you.”_

Soldat springs forward as he jolts awake and out of the dream. His heart pounds in his chest as he blinks furiously in the dark. His breath is hard and quick as his skin is damp with a cold sweat. He scrambles for the gun underneath the mattress, thrusting it into the air towards the main door as he drags in harsh breaths. He sits there, minute after minute, the gun pointed towards the door, unknowingly digging the blade of his knife into his palm as he grips in his pocket. 

_Calm down. I_ _t’s okay._

He lets his mouth fall open as his chest heaves. _Calm down, it’s okay._ He lowers the gun slowly as his brain tries to take control of his conditioned body. _It was just a dream._ A dream? Soldat doesn’t remember ever dreaming, not for... a long time. Years. The pictures of his face in the newspaper flashes before his eyes, and then the lips, the blonde hair, the soft _hey jerk_ … _I love you_ …

Soldat drops the gun. He covers his face with his hands as he closes his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to reconcile it all. But he can’t, it’s all too scrambled, too disjointed. He stands from the lumpy mattress and sheds his sweatshirt before he rips at the thin, stolen t-shirt underneath, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He drags his heavy body into the kitchen and turns on the sink, pushing his hands underneath the healthy stream of cool water, noticing it tinged with red. He’s bleeding— the blade of the knife he was clutching tore his skin. He watches as the red water spirals around the drain before it goes clear again, and then throws the water in his face. 

_I love you… Buck, God… shit, baby, you feel so good…_

Buck. He had a name. He _has_ a name. James Buchanan Barnes. Buck. He rubs his hands against his face before he dips them back underneath the water and splashes it again, this time running his fingers through his hair. He collects more water in the palms of his hand before he splashes his chest and leaves his flesh hand in the center, needing it to center him— anchor him. 

He drops his head after a few minutes, resting his hands on the edge of the sink and presses his weight into it. He closes his eyes again, shaking his head, this time wanting to clear the cobwebs. He wants to know— he _has_ to know. He was a _person_ , with a _name_ , and dare he say a love. 

_Those images don’t belong to you anymore._ _Leave it alone, Soldat._

He was a _person_ , with a _name_. He wants to know. He has to know. 

_You’ve been out too long._

“I’m a person, with a name.” He says outloud, “James Buchanan Barnes. Buck.”

\----------

The next day comes slowly for Soldat, but the sun is welcomed. With his hat low over his eyes, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and moves back out onto the street, this time with a specific destination in mind. He keeps a brisk pace, eyes forward, as he winds through the sleepy streets— merchants still opening their carts, newspapers still bundled together and piled on the corners of the streets. 

He makes his way to the public library, jogging up the staircase and throwing open the doors— the cool air of the air conditioning slapping against his body. He keeps his head low as he moves through the book shelves before finding the computers stationed at the back. He slips behind one of the screens and awakens it before he types in a name; _his_ name.

 _James Buchanan Barnes._

When he hits enter, pages and pages of information flood onto the screen. The Smithsonian Institute’s website pops up first. He clicks the link and sits back in his seat as he’s met by another picture of himself, this time, reimagined in color. His lips part as he stares into his own haunting blue eyes. He turns his head, his vision tunneling towards the rows of bookshelves. He swallows, closing his eyes slightly before he pushes a breath out of his nose. 

He scrolls down on the screen and skims his eyes over the caption just underneath the picture. _James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes after he enlists in the US Army, 1941._ He skims over the name again— Bucky. _Buck, slow down baby..._

He scrolls down, seeing another picture of himself with five other men. _Barnes along with the Howling Commandos, pictured from left to right: Timothy “Dum Dum Dugan”, Jim Morita, James Montgomery Falsworth, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, Steven Grant Rogers, Gabe Jones, and Happy Sam Sawyer._

 _Steven Grant Rogers_ . He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the crinkled up newspaper article he pulled out of the trash before he left. He unfolds it, setting it on the desk next to him. There it is again, _Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America_. He stares back towards the computer screen, zeroing in on the tall blonde in the center of the picture. That’s him, but it’s not… he’s different somehow, not like in his dream. He’s... bigger, but that face, that square jaw, those eyes, they seem right— almost like his head was placed on a different body. 

He clicks on the name, _Steven Grant Rogers_ , bringing him to a new page. He scans through the information until he comes to a grainy, black and white video. He stands on the left, Steven Grant Rogers on the right. Bucky’s hair is short, unlike it is now, but he looks happy— they both do. They stand in front of a brick wall or building, both laughing and smiling back at the camera. He cocks his head as the video clip loops over and over, staring at Steven Grant Rogers. He just isn’t right, somethings not right. 

He scrolls some more, and then halts when another picture comes onto the screen. The man is smaller. His face is softer, his shoulders and chest not so broad, his height gone.That chin is square, that blonde hair still wispy— that’s him. That’s the man he dreamt about. 

_Steven Grant Rogers before injecting the Super Soldier serum, March 1941 : 5’7, 110lbs / Steven Grant Rogers after injecting the Super Soldier serum, March 1941 : 6’2, 240lbs_

The side by side pictures fill in some of the many holes in Soldat's— Bucky’s brain. He prints that page, ripping off everything except the before picture and shoves it in his pocket before he backs out of the website entirely. He googles another name, _Captain America_ , and hits enter, a recent article popping up first on the search. 

_Steve Rogers is officially retired as Captain America. Pictured below, Captain Steven Grant Rogers handing over his iconic shield to Captain America incumbent, Samuel Thomas Wilson in New York City, New York March 15, 2020._

Bucky skims the article quickly, grabbing a random pen from a table behind him, jotting down all the pertinent information he needs. He backs out of the webpage again and stands, shoving the newly attained info into his pocket before he moves out of the quiet library and back out onto the street. 

He has to figure out how to get to New York. 

\----------

_Upstate New York_

A knock sounds through the old farm house, but Steve doesn’t budge from his spot on the bed. He hears the dogs’ feet scraping along the old wooden floor as he runs towards the door, barking all the while. He sends his eyes around his room aimlessly as he hears the front door open and then close, before a muffled voice floats towards him. _Hey Bucky, how you doin’ boy? Huh? How you doin’, bud?_

Then there’s heavy footsteps moving to the steps, then thuds as the familiar presence draws nearer to Steve’s room. Steve takes a breath as he widens his bare legs out on his mattress and drops his large hand to his sex. He rubs himself gently through his black boxers before he dips his hand underneath the band to grab himself, inhaling sharply as the warmth of his palm spreads through him. 

Suddenly, there’s a man in the doorway, watching him. Steve rolls his head to the side, a gentle smile spreading on his lips as he drags his hand along his shaft, breathing steadily as he rests his free hand on his stomach. He watches as the deep brown skinned man sits his shield on the floor, resting it against the wall before he unzips his red, white, and blue uniform. 

“You couldn’t wait for me to get here before you got started?” Sam smiles as the top half of his uniform falls to his waist while he kicks out his heavy boots. 

Steve just shakes his head, “Go slow.”

Sam tilts his head and smiles again, _slowly_ , before he reaches for the bottom of his thin, white tank top. He pulls it over his head and Steve groans as his now exposed muscles flex with his movements. Steve sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, biting down as his hand continues to bounce against his stomach, before sliding up his shaft again. 

Sam is certainly a sight for sore eyes. His shoulders are broad, his biceps thick, his chest naturally shaped. His skin is smooth and impeccably blemish free, which always bewildered Steve. He fights aliens for a living, but his skin would never tell the tale; not a scar is splashed on that beautiful, brown skin. 

Steve inhales deeply again as a pressure begins to build in his groin. He watches as Sam pushes away his uniform, down his long legs before he steps out of it completely. Sam stands straight again, rolling his shoulders as he closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the ceiling, stretching out his neck. His lips part as he reaches up to the crook of his neck and presses his fingers into his flesh, squeezing gently as he massages the thick, sore muscles. 

“Those are cute,” Steve says as his eyes drop to Sam’s flag themed boxer briefs, the outline of his hard cock ever present.

Sam turns, just so Steve can get a view of his tight, full ass and peeks back at him over his shoulder, “I knew you’d like them.”

Steve smiles, “Well, come here. Let me take them off.”

Sam smiles widely, which makes Steve smile wider in return. Sam ambles toward him, falling onto his hands and knees on the mattress to climb over Steve’s long body. He falls on top of Steve, kissing him hard - it’s been a while. Weeks; almost a month. Being Captain America is very time consuming. He moans into Steve’s mouth when Steve grabs his ass, squeezing his flesh just as hard as Sam kisses him, pushing Sam’s hips into his. 

“Happy to see me, soldier?” Sam asks breathlessly a few seconds later, feeling Steve’s hardness against his thigh. 

Steve smiles again, “I’m always happy to see you, Sammy boy.”

Before Sam can protest, he’s flipped onto his back, Steve now hovering over him. Sam closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to contain the smile that spreads on his mouth when Steve’s lips graze along his neck. Sam lets out a soft breath, a small moan, as he melts into the mattress and let’s Steve have his way with him. 

Steve drags his tongue along Sam’s collar bone before he kisses Sam’s smooth, even, brown skin. It’s beautiful, Sam’s skin. He kisses down his firm chest and stomach, chuckling a little when Sam’s body jumps slightly from the warmth of his mouth and tongue. When Steve reaches the band of his underwear, he kisses his way from hip to hip as he curls his fingers underneath the material. He pulls slowly, letting his lips follow the underwear down Sam’s long legs until the man is left with nothing _but_ Steve’s lips on him. 

Steve grabs him in his palm, starting slow strokes as he nips at Sam’s thighs with his lips and teeth. He flicks his eyes up to Sam’s and finds the man’s head tilted toward the ceiling, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. His hips rock into Steve’s hand, his back arches away from the mattress, his breaths are quick and choppy. Sam’s long fingers find Steve’s head and push into his blonde tresses, gripping tightly, pulling softly. It makes Steve growl. 

It's been a while for the old man. 

He lowers his mouth over Sam, his tongue swirling around his tip before he takes him all. Sam jerks his hips into Steve’s mouth at the sudden feeling of that velvety smooth tongue tracing his shaft. Steve grips his hips and tightens his hold, stilling Sam as he starts to bob his head up and down, up and down, up and down. He grabs Sam’s cock again with his hand and follows his mouth up his length with it, before twisting his hand around him on the way down. 

Sam is always loud— that’s what Steve liked about him. Soon, his gasps and moans, his hisses and grunts fill the usually silent house and Steve once again feels alive; if only for the short time that Sam is here. Steve moans around Sam’s cock and Sam’s body jerks again, making Steve chuckle. He drags his fingernails down Sam’s thighs before he releases him with a _pop_ and sits up on his knees. 

He doesn’t even have to ask, Sam just knows to reach blindly for the nightstand and pull out the top drawer, fumbling around until he finds what he’s looking for. All the while, Steve shrugs out of his black boxer briefs, tossing them to the floor with the rest of Sam’s clothing before he tugs himself gently. Sam tosses the small tube towards him, the bottle landing next to Steve with a soft _thud_.

Steve pops the cap and squirts some of the warming, water based gel onto his fingers. He tosses his eyes back to Sam’s face as he starts to tease his hole with his fingers, circling gently. Sam instantly spreads his legs, drawing them up so that his feet are flat on the mattress, bent at the knee. Sam grabs himself and starts to drag his hand along his shaft, letting out another groan that rumbles through his chest. 

“Good boy,” Steve purrs, removing his hand to squirt a little more of the gel on himself. He pulls his hand along his cock, spreading the lubricant, before he drags his tip across Sam’s tight hole, “You ready for me, baby?”

“God, yes—” Sam chokes, gripping the sheets in his hands, “Yes, Steve.”

Steve pushes, his breath hitching in his chest and throat for a split second as he’s consumed by Sam’s inner heat. He holds his breath as he continues to slide in, his mouth falling open at the feeling of Sam’s body wrapping around him. Sam mewls as he rolls his shoulders, his eyes still slammed shut as Steve spreads him. 

Once he’s to his hilt, Steve lets out the long breath that’s built up inside of him, groaning all the while. He starts to move, pulling out of Sam’s body before pushing back in, filling him up completely. Sam starts to lunge, bouncing up and down the mattress with Steve’s thrusts, that get faster, and harder as the seconds tick by. He grabs at Steve’s hips and thighs, Sam’s fingernails digging into his thick flesh.

He can’t keep his hands on Steve for long. His chest starts to tighten, the pressure in his stomach starts to build and his hand is back on his own cock, tugging quickly. Sam’s other hand finds his balls, pulling softly as Steve punishes him, losing all of his inhibitions, “ _Ah— fuck, Steve_!”

That’s exactly what Steve likes to hear— what he _needs_ to hear. He grabs Sam’s ankle and tosses his leg over his shoulder before he leans forward, straining Sam’s limb just a little. He balls his fists and pushes them into the mattress, dropping his eyes to Sam’s hands as they work in overtime, pushing the man even closer to his impending release. Steve drills into him hard and fast, his own pressure bubbling inside of him. 

“Steve, I—” Sam starts to beg, his breath light, his voice whiny, “I can’t… baby, I’m gonna— _oh_ , Stev—”

He can’t even finish the sentence. Before he can get the man’s name out of his mouth, his hips are jerking with his orgasm, his hot cum spurting from his slit. He nearly cries as Steve fucks him through it. His back is arched again, his head tilted towards the ceiling as he spurts over and over, long ribbons of his seed splattering against his stomach and chest. 

It’s a gorgeous sight, watching Samuel Thomas Wilson come. Steve _almost_ makes it through this time. Sam’s cock is just about milked when Steve starts to come undone. This is the only time he gets loud, when the waves of his own orgasm start to wash over him. His thrusts stay hard but they get longer, deeper, his hips jutting with each spurt from his cock. He ruts into Sam, each jab of his hips coming with a low growl - his hand digging into Sam’s hips, pushing him into the mattress. 

Sam grips Steve’s thigh as his thrusts finally slow to a stop and his head hangs between his shoulder blades as he pushes out hard, choppy breaths. Sam runs his fingers through Steve’s hair before he drags his fingers along his bicep, trying to coax him to lay down with him. He winces a little as Steve pulls out of him, leaving him empty, but a smile instantly spreads on his face when Steve crashes down next to him, pulling Sam’s body into his. 

Legs and arms are intertwined, Sam’s face nuzzled into Steve’s neck, Steve’s hair in his face. It’s not often that the two of them get to actually _rest_ together. Their trysts are usually quick, sometimes not even lasting an entire hour before Sam has to leave again because some asshole just can’t behave. Today is a little different for the friends turned lovers— they both actually get to fall asleep, and stay asleep for a good part of the late morning and early afternoon.

A rustling noise, and movement some hours later pulls Steve out of his sleep. Sam’s muffled voice is what makes him finally open his eyes. 

“Fury, I’ve been gone for like three hours, chill… you can’t send Scott and the kid to check it out?.. Lemme guess, T’Challa’s busy too… alright, man… okay, okay, I’ll be there. Give me an hour… I’ll be there in an hour, he can wait one fucking hour.”

“Everythin’ okay?” Steve asks, his voice deep and full with sleep as he rolls over onto his back. 

“Yeah, I,” Sam sighs heavily before he stands from the bed, “I gotta go.”

“Of course you do, Cap.”

Sam tosses his eyes back to the blonde man, a scowl on his face as he steps back into his red, white, and blue underwear, “You know, you can take this shit back.”

“I don’t want it, that’s why I gave it to you.” Steve chuckles.

Sam clicks his teeth, “Gee, thanks.”

“What’s happening now?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, old man.” Sam smiles, “Go back to sleep.”

“You know,” Steve starts, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, “You shouldn’t talk to your elders that way.”

Steve watches as Sam dresses quickly before he shrugs into his own pair of boxers and jeans. He follows Sam out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out onto the porch, where Sam adjusts his coordinates on the small touch screen built into his suit. He turns back quickly, pecking Steve’s lips with his own before he smiles softly again, his dark, warm, brown eyes bouncing between Steve’s cool blue ones. 

Steve wonders why they couldn’t work more than just friends with occasional benefits, but deep down, he _does_ know why. Too much baggage for the both of them. Two lost loves, tragically so, and they just can’t find it in them to fully move on— not yet anyway. Sam’s is fresher than his, just a few years removed from Riley, but it burns all the same. 

Sam leans in and pecks Steve’s lips with his own, once, twice, three, four times before he jogs down the two steps of the porch and stands in the dirt. His wings expand as he adjusts the red tinted glasses over his eyes.

“See you soon?” Steve calls.

Sam nods, “I’ll try not to let so much time go by next time.”

“Be careful.”

Sam smiles again, a wide, bright smile that makes Steve’s heart flutter in his chest, “Always.”

Steve blinks and Sam catapults into the blue sky, miles high within seconds. Steve watches as he spins in the air, Sam showing off for him, making him smile, before he jets off back towards the city. Steve only looks away when he feels his trusty retriever brush along his leg, “Hey puppy.” He sighs a little, scratching behind his eyes, “Hungry, Buck? Huh? You hungry? Come on, let’s get some lunch, bud.”

Steve pushes back inside, his stomach growling a little as Bucky moves behind him. He pours the dog his lunch first, sitting his bowl on the floor and patting his head as he starts to lap it up before he grabs a bowl and a random cereal box for himself. Steve eats standing up, leaning against the counter as he reads over the newspaper, intentionally skipping over the international news. 

His phone buzzes from its place in the hallway drawer. He wants to ignore it, like he usually does because nobody important ever calls him anyway. His interest is piqued all the same, maybe Fury needs some advice. He pushes away from the counter and pads towards the sound, pulling open the drawer and bringing the iPhone to his ear as Sam’s name flashes across it.

“Damn, I’m surprised you answered.” Sam shouts, the wind rushing around him. 

Steve smirks as he walks towards the front door, peering out of it, “You just left and you already want some more?”

“Don’t you start.”

“What? It’s gotta be something for you to call me while you’re still in the air.”

“No, I just wanted to tell you, I saw something on the edge of your property. Looked like trash or something, I’m not sure, but there’s a mass of _something_ right on the edge of the corn.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “It’s probably those kids again, throwing their goddamn beer bottles and shit over here. I’ll check it out, thanks for letting me know.”

“Not a problem, old man. I um, I had a nice time.”

Steve smiles again, “Me too. I’ll see ya in a month.”

“Shut up. It’ll be sooner than that.”

“Sure it will.” Steve steps out onto the porch, squinting as the sun beats down on him.

“You know what? Now I hope it’s the kids throwing their trash in your corn.” Sam answers, his voice cutting in and out as the air whips around him. 

“Wow,” Steve says, his eyes going big as he feigns irritation, “Captain America is kind of a jerk.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Sam says, and Steve can practically see him shaking his head, “Goodbye.”

“Don’t be mad, I’m just joki-”

The line goes dead. Steve chuckles, tossing the phone into the small chair next to the front door and grabs his dirty boots, shoving his feet into them before he whistles to Bucky, “Come on boy! Come with dad.”

The dog bounds by him, jumping into the bed of Steve’s truck as Steve gets in behind the wheel. He brings the old truck to life and pulls down the dirt road, humming slightly to himself as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel. When he gets to the edge of his property, he brings the truck to a stop, shouting at Bucky as he takes off into the cornfield. 

“Damn it,” Steve swears under his breath, throwing open the door and jogging after the spry pup, “Buck! Come on boy,” he whistles. 

Steve ducks as he moves through the field, batting the leaves of the corn stalks out of his way. He stops when he hears Bucky start to bark minutes later, turning his head towards the sound. He moves towards it quickly, picking up on the defensiveness of the dog's bark. Steve finally spots Bucky’s tail through the stalks, his body low to the ground as he growls and snaps at something just beyond him. 

“Bucky, heel.” Steve calls, his voice low and authoritative as he peers through the corn, his defensive instincts bubbling up in his body. 

Bucky obeys immediately, sitting on his butt but keeps his ears up and his eyes straight ahead. Steve moves up beside him, patting his head gently as he cranes his neck to see what Bucky sees. There’s a pile of _something_ all right. Steve inches forward, his right fist balled as he uses his left to move past a few more stalks of corn. 

He inhales sharply when he realizes just _what_ the pile is. There are broken and bent stalks all around, husks of corn littered on the ground. Right in the center, is a man. Dressed in all black, military boots, a torn and tattered hoodie covering the man’s torso. There’s a hint of silver glinting in the sun. The man lies on his side, a baseball cap a few inches away from him, facing away from Steve, his long, brown, shaggy hair spidering out on the ground behind his head. 

Bucky starts to bark again, but Steve hushes him instantly, holding up his hand. He moves a little closer, both fists now balled as he lifts them in front of his face, ready for a fight. He kicks at one of the man’s feet, stepping back immediately— but he doesn’t move, the man. Steve kicks the foot again and again gets no response. 

“Hey,” he calls out, “Hey, man. You alright?”

Still nothing. Steve lowers his hands to his sides. _Probably some kid that got drunk last night and wandered into the field,_ “Come on, kid. You gotta get up.” Steve says, placing his hands on his hips, “Caleb? Your dad is gonna kill you, come on man.”

Steve glances away from him, slightly irritated that he will once again have to throw the seventeen year old Caleb over his shoulder and walk him home. He sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his head towards the sky as he tries to keep his anger in check. He exhales and drops his hands again, bending over to roll the kid onto his back, “Alright Caleb, let’s— ”

He jumps back, inhaling sharply again as he rolls the boy, or what he _thought_ was a boy over onto his back. His eyes go wide as he stares down at… it can’t be. _It can’t be._ No, he’s… dreaming. That’s it, he’s dreaming. He’s still laying in bed with Sam in his air conditioned house, and certainly not out in the heat staring down at a man he hasn’t seen in almost eighty years. 

Steve blinks. His mouth falls open as he starts to push rough breaths out through his teeth. He’s not dreaming. It’s _him_. It’s… He kneels down, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he swallows hard. That jawline, it’s still as square and strong as it was back in 1935, this time just sprinkled with dark stubble. His nose, his eyes, that stupid forehead… it’s…

“Bucky.” He breathes softly, the name barely audible as it falls off of his tongue. The golden retriever behind him sprints to his side, nudging his face, “Not you, bud.”

Steve has to blink again, as all the memories of his past come flooding forward. Bucky’s blue eyes blinking back at him, that shit eating grin on his face. His soft, pink lips on his, his weight… pushing Steve into the mattress. How Bucky would slip his fingers between Steve’s at the movies when the lights would dim, his thumb rubbing slow circles into Steve’s palm. 

He swallows hard, feeling the lump in his throat. He has to close his eyes as the sound of Bucky’s scream rips through his head. The fear in his eyes as he fell… _where has he been all this time?_

Steve’s mind races, but he’s instincts start to kick in again. He couldn’t save him all those years ago, but he can, _and will_ , now. He stands, grabbing the lifeless man in his hands before he hoists him up, throwing him over his shoulder. He rushes back through the cornfield and towards his truck as the four legged Bucky races beside him, jumping up to nip and bark at the mass slung over Steve’s shoulder. Steve throws open the passenger door, shrugging the man inside before he whistles towards the other Bucky, slapping his hand on the back of the truck to get him to jump into the bed again. 

He jumps behind the wheel and barely turns the key before his foot slams onto the gas pedal. Dirt flies up from the tires as they grind against the dirt when Steve whips the truck around, finally gaining traction after fishtailing slightly. He grips the steering wheel hard, his knuckles turning white as his mind continues to spin as he rushes back towards the house. 

This is not how he thought his day was going to go when he woke up this morning. 

\----------

_Bucky gazes back into two blue eyes, a soft smile spreading on his lips as he brings Steve’s hand to his mouth. He grazes the backs of Steve’s fingers over his lips before kissing each one as the smaller, blonde man lets out a deep breath. Bucky watches as Steve’s eyes close and he rolls his head towards the window, letting the warm sun and the soft breeze wash over him as he drifts off to sleep, his long fingers bushing softly up and down Bucky’s spine._

_Bucky sweeps the blonde hair off of Steve’s forehead before he leans into him, peppering kisses along his jaw, causing a broad smile to spread on Steve’s lips._

_“You should get some sleep.” Steve says softly, nuzzling into Bucky’s bare chest._

_“You first.” Bucky whispers, returning Steve’s fingers to his lips._

_“Mmmm,” Steve hums, tightening his grip around Bucky’s waist, “Jerk.”_

_Bucky smiles slowly, watching his love fall into a gentle sleep, “Punk.”_

The memory starts to fade away as the fog in Bucky’s brain starts to dissipate. He grunts softly as his body pains start to break through his subconscious. He rolls his head slowly as he swallows, more pain ripping through him at the feeling of his dry, scratchy throat. He tries to open his eyes, but the blinding light from above makes him slam them shut again. He goes to sit up, but his body gives up, not finding the strength.

_“Bucky? Bucky, it’s okay. Don’t move.”_

That voice— he knows that voice. He goes to move again but there’s suddenly a hand on his chest, holding him down, _“Don’t move, buddy. It’s okay._ ”

Bucky’s eyes flutter as his mind starts to race, not remembering what happened, or where he is— how many days he’s lost. He starts to panic, his metal arm jutting upward, grabbing whatever or whoever is standing over him. He tosses the heavy mass away from him as he blinks furiously, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar room as more panic rushes through him.

“Bucky! Just relax! It’s okay!”

He rolls off of the table, his heavy body crashing to the floor before he regains his balance and pushes the table out of his way. He snarls his lip as he stares down a tall, shocked man— his hands extended outward as he breathes heavy. Bucky clenches his fists, grunting with his breaths as adrenaline pumps through him. 

“Bucky,” the blonde man says slowly, “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise, okay? Just listen to me— hear my voice, bud.”

Bucky continues to blink hard and fast, his head pounding, pain still rippling through him. His brain is so foggy, just bits and pieces of the past few… days, maybe?... flash before him. His stomach is tight and beyond empty, his lips cracked and bloody from being so dry— but the urge to fight, and possibly kill, still takes over. 

“Listen to me,” the man says softly, “You know me. Just try and remember. You know me.”

“I don’t know you.” Bucky hisses back, his fists still balled into fists in front of his face. 

_Yes you do. You know him. Remember._

“You do know me. It’s Steve, buddy. Steve Rogers. You know me.”

Bucky glances around, his eyes wide and wild as the name runs through his mind. _Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers. You know him. He’s why you came here._

“Bucky-”

Bucky snaps his eyes back to the man, Steve, standing opposite him. _Bucky. You’re Bucky. Remember!_ “Bucky… I’m… I’m Bucky? I’m Bucky.”

“Yes,” Steve says, “You’re Bucky. I’m Stevie.”

Bucky blinks again, lowering his fists slightly as his vision tunnels. _Come on, Stevie. Let’s go to Coney Island, huh? We can make out underneath the ferris wheel…_ He closes his eyes as the old words come flooding back, various scrambled images flashing before his eyes. He wobbles on his feet as his head spins. He slams his hands over his ears as all of the sounds start to overwhelm him, Steve trying to talk him down, a dog barking, his own rushed, shallow breaths. His body shakes, his vision starts to blur, his stomach churns.

_“It’s okay, Bucky. Just let me help you.”_

Steve’s voice grows distant as Bucky tries to stay conscious, “Shut up. Jus…”

He stumbles backward. 

Everything goes black.

\----------

Steve lays the unconscious Bucky down in his bed, slipping his head out from underneath his arm. He moves into the bathroom and grabs a washcloth, wetting it quickly before he returns to Bucky’s side, sitting gently beside him as he starts to dab at his forehead, He chews on his lip, his mind racing but he tries not to focus on any one particularly. He just needs to help Bucky right now.

He wipes at his mouth, removing some of the dried blood from his dry lips as old memories start to play in his mind. He still remembers what those lips feel like against his own— against his skin. He stops after a few minutes, emotion gathering in his throat as his eyes roam over Bucky’s body. He places his hand in the middle of his chest, watching as it rises and falls with his shallow breaths. His heart beat is still strong, just like it used to be. 

Steve can’t help but smile as he remembers laying his head on Bucky’s chest at night all those years ago, thumping his fingers against Bucky’s stomach to the rhythm of his heart. It was calming to him. His own heartbeat was shallow and offbeat— sometimes slow, sometimes rushed for no reason. It was nice to hear a normal one for a change. 

Steve’s face drops as he cuts his eyes away from Bucky. This isn’t the Bucky he knew. He isn’t the Steve that Bucky once knew… and he doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do. He swallows hard, before he lifts the washcloth to Bucky’s forehead, dabbing again softly.

“What happened to you, Buck?” He whispers. 

An hour passes. Steve paces back and forth in the kitchen, his phone crushed against his ear as his worried pup watches him from his bed in the corner. A pot boils on the stove behind him— his mom’s not so famous chicken noodle soup.

“It’s him Sam, I know it is.”

Sam sighs into his ear as he taps away at the computer in front of him, “Shit, I thought _you_ were going to be the weirdest person I ever met.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You find anything yet?”

“Just hang on, it’s not easy breaking into encrypted files… uhhh,” Sam hums to himself as his eyes scan the screen, “Shit.”

“What?” Steve asks, coming to a halt, “What is it?”

“You’re going to have to give me a few days, man. These encryptions are beyond my scope, I need to get with Sharon.”

Steve shuts his eyes in disappointment, letting out a breath, “A few days?”

“I’m sorry. They really don’t want anybody reading these files. I swear, I’ll get back to you as soon as Sharon and I can crack them.”

“I know you will. Thank you.”

“I can come back, you know. I mean, this could technically be a national emergency.”

The pot on the stove boils over, the water hissing as it meets the fire beneath it. Steve snaps his head back towards it, cursing under his breath as he moves to the stove, pulling the pot off of the burner, “No, it’s… it’s okay. I can handle it.”

“Steve,”

“No, I mean it. I’ll, I’ll be okay. Just get back to me as soon as you can, okay?”

Sam sighs into the phone, “Okay. Just… be careful. He’s obviously not the same person you remember.”

Steve nods slowly as he stares down into the pot of chicken noodle soup, “I know. Thanks Sam.”

“No problem. I’m here if you need me, please call.”

“I will. Bye.”

Steve slides the phone into his pocket before closing his eyes and rolling his head slowly back and forth on his neck. He grabs a bowl from the cupboard and fills it with the hot, homemade soup before he pours a glass of water and moves back upstairs quietly. He peeks into his bedroom through the slightly open door, finding his bed empty.

“Shit.”

He pushes inside of the room, his eyes darting around quickly before he sits the food on the nightstand. The bathroom door is cracked open, the light on. Steve tiptoes towards it, his breath getting shallow as his fingertips press against the door, pushing it open a little wider. His heart sinks to his feet when his eyes land on Bucky, sitting on the floor against the far wall, his knees drawn into his chest. His forehead is in his palms, his fingers dug into his hair, gripping it hard. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispers, sinking to his knees, “Buddy? What’s the matter?”

Bucky grunts, his head pounding and his equilibrium shot, “Steve. You’re Steve.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, “I’m Steve. What happened to you?”

More scattered images flash before Bucky’s eyes. The chair, the ice, his screams as they wiped him clean after each successful mission— the faces of his victims. The horror in their eyes as they begged him for their lives. Bucky slams his eyes shut again and rocks forward. He’s been out too long. 

Steve doesn’t want to push him. He’s fragile— barely hanging on to whatever reality he’s in right now. Steve stands and inches closer, reaching out to him, his fingers brushing along Bucky’s shoulder. He jumps back when Bucky recoils violently, sliding into the corner in the room as his eyes widen, his pupils blown. 

“Don’t touch me.” Bucky whispers hard, his chest heaving as he begins to visibly shake.

“Okay,” Steve throws up his hands and steps back as emotion fills his chest, “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, “I won’t… I have some soup, if you’re hungry. I’m gonna, um,” he steps out the bathroom and grabs the bowl and glass of water, trying to hold himself together, “I’m just gonna leave it here, okay? You just… I’ll come back and check on you.”

He sits the bowl on the floor and turns on his heel, rushing out of the room and taking the stairs two by two. He pushes out the front door forcefully and out onto the porch, placing his hands on his hips as he drags in deep breaths of air. He slams his eyes shut and covers his mouth with his hand as a hot tear slips down his cheek. 

Bucky— the dog, not the terrified human cowering in his bathroom— brushes up against his leg, before he nudges at Steve’s hand, whining softly. Steve sits on the step and throws his arms over the shaggy dog’s neck, scratching his chest as he gazes out onto the stalks of corn. He lets out a focused breath through his teeth and closes his eyes again, trying to send himself back to the thirties. Back to when the world was small, when nothing mattered more than having Bucky wrapped around him. 

He’s going to find out who did this. 

And he’s going to kill them.

\----------

The next few days are touch and go. Steve keeps his distance— sleeping on the couch downstairs while Bucky stays holed up in his bedroom. He hears Bucky pacing at night, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Steve sneaks up into the hallway, listening to Bucky mumble and talk to himself, trying to force himself to remember it all, not just bits and pieces. 

He usually passes out around daylight. That’s when Steve sneaks in, sits on the edge of the bed and watches the battered, broken man sleep. Steve reaches out slowly and brushes the long, brown hair out of his face, lets his fingers skim gently down Bucky’s cheek and jaw before he pulls away. He covers him up with the blanket and moves back downstairs to start his day— after all, he’s got a farm to take care of. 

Steve cooks three square meals a day, leaving the food and random fruits in front of the door, returning to find the empty plates— and the door still closed. At least he’s eating.

Sam finally calls at the end of the third day. _It’s not good, Steve. He’s… please be careful._ A package comes the following day— Bucky’s file. It’s all in Russian and German, but Steve devours it that afternoon, embarking on a rollercoaster of emotions. He has to step away from it at times, going into the barn to beat the shit out of the punching bag that hangs in the corner. 

He could have done more, he _should_ have. He should have ended Hydra years ago— he shouldn’t have stopped until every last one of them met their maker. Maybe he could have helped, maybe he would have found Bucky earlier— _don’t do that. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. You saw him fall. You thought he was dead, that’s not on you._

He should have done more. 

Once he’s exhausted himself in the barn, he heads back inside, scratching dog Buck on his head as he passes by him on the porch. The screen door slams against the frame as he walks inside, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and he moves into the kitchen for a glass of water. He stops at the threshold, eyeing Bucky as he stares down at the open file on the table. 

“This isn’t right,” Bucky says after a few quiet moments, never taking his eyes off of the picture of himself. 

“What isn’t?”

Bucky hums softly, tracing his finger down the picture, “Says, I’m credited with over two dozen assassinations. It’s closer to four. Forty six to be exact.”

Steve stares at him, completely speechless. Bucky tears his eyes away from the page to look at the dumbfounded man before him. He blinks slowly, tilting his head, “I remember every single one of them. There’s no amount of wipes they could do to ever make me forget.” He lets his eyes fall away from Steve for a second, before snapping them back up to him, “And then I remember you. They couldn’t get rid of you either. Stevie.”

Steve’s lips part as he stares back at Bucky, not sure what to say, but not _really_ wanting to say anything anyway. Bucky drops his eyes again, this time to the golden haired dog at Steve’s side. The four legged Bucky swishes his tail, then moves towards the two legged one, brushing against his leg before he sits and sniffs at his metal digits. Bucky furrows his brow but brushes his fingers over the top of the dog's head. 

“What’s his name?”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Embarrassment flushes through him, making him chuckle lightly and run his hand through his hair, “I named him Bucky. After you.”

Bucky shifts his eyes back to Steve’s, “Why?”

Steve shrugs, “I missed you.” He answers simply. 

Bucky isn’t sure how to reply. He feels something, he just doesn’t know what it is yet. It’s been too long since he was last allowed to feel without being told _what_ to feel. Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other as it grows silent between the two of them again. He glances around, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand again.

“I, uh,” Steve starts slowly, “I was gonna start dinner in a minute. You wanna maybe eat down here? With me?” He watches as Bucky drops his eyes to the floor and immediately speaks again, “You don’t have to. I just thought maybe—"

“I’ll eat down here.” 

Steve nods slowly, placing his hands on his hips as he glances around the room. He points behind himself, the awkwardness filling the small kitchen, “I’m gonna shower first, okay? If you need anything, I’ll just be, you know, right down the hall. I won’t be long.”

Bucky nods. He watches as Steve turns on his heel, glancing over his shoulder at him before he takes off out of the kitchen and down the hall. Minutes later, he can hear the rushing water of the shower, sparking another quick memory. Soapy hands. Laughter. Water dripping off long eyelashes and streaking down soft, buttery skin. Bucky’s head thrown back as Steve perches before him on his knees…

Bucky swallows hard as his chest and stomach tightens. He blinks in the general direction of where Steve walked off to, his mind starting to go places it hasn’t been _allowed_ to go in years. His body starts to react to the memory, just slightly, but enough for him to notice. He’s been taught to suppress these things— and when he absolutely couldn’t, someone was _provided_ for relief. He wasn’t allowed to _enjoy_ it, it was just to get him to _focus_ on whatever mission he was about to be sent on. 

Music drifts down the hallway towards him, making him snap his eyes towards the partially closed door. His feet start to move. The four legged version of him trails behind him, just to make _sure_ this guy is on the up and up. Bucky peeks into the room, finding it empty but the bathroom door wide open. An old song, something he should remember, plays from the inside the bathroom, pulling him into the room. He stops just at the threshold of the bathroom, stepping to the side as he peers inside.

His breath hitches in his throat as he gets an eyeful of the incredibly tall, golden skinned Steve Rogers in all his glory. His sinewy back is to him, his head hanging low as the steady stream of hot water pelts his shoulders and back. His palm is rested against the wall in front of him as he holds his weight against it, letting his skin and muscles soak. Bucky’s eyes fall to his perfectly toned ass, then his sturdy thighs and defined calf muscles. 

He swallows hard.

He watches as Steve lifts his head to throw it back to allow the water to trickle down his neck and chest. Steve turns suddenly, his front now facing Bucky as he pushes his hands down his chest before grabbing for his loofah and body wash. 

Bucky’s eyes go wide as he watches Steve lather his body. His strong hands push along his pecs and down his set of abs, right into the dark hair at the base of his stomach. Bucky gulps as Steve washes himself, more impure thoughts flooding to his brain as Steve palms his cock. Bucky has the urge to fall to his knees, to have his nose buried in that wiry patch of dark blonde hair while his hands grope that perfect ass. 

Blood rushes to Bucky’s lower half, his cock starting to press against the front of his pants. He feels weird, a little creepy for spying on Steve but he just can’t tear his eyes away. He’s beautiful. His long, wet eyelashes, that singular vein that stretches down his bicep and forearm, the deep curve of his back… it all makes Bucky’s fingers itch. He just wants to touch him. _Again_. 

The four legged Bucky barks suddenly, and without reason. Steve cuts his eyes towards the doorframe and the two legged Bucky skirts just out of sight, slamming his eyes closed as he rests his forehead against the wall— praying that Steve didn’t see him. He waits for a minute, listening hard for any movement before he slowly tips towards the door again and peeks inside. Steve has turned away from him as he runs his hands through his wet hair, obviously oblivious to Bucky’s prying eyes.

Bucky pushes out a breath and glances down at the tail wagging pup, “Thanks for the heart attack.” He whispers. 

He moves out of the room just as quietly as he came and settles back in the kitchen, his brain scattered, his cheeks flushed. He tries to take his mind off of Steve but heat continues to flush through him, his tense body humming with arousal. He cuts his eyes back towards the hallway when he hears heavy footsteps, averting them quickly as a shirtless Steve steps into the kitchen. 

“I was thinking steak and potatoes, you okay with that?” Steve asks, stepping past Bucky who sits at the table.

Bucky tosses his eyes towards Steve, catching a stray droplet of water at his collarbone. It slips down between his pecs and hard stomach before it’s absorbed by the soft material of his shorts. Bucky swallows hard again as Steve’s voice breaks through his trance.

“Bucky? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… yeah.” He stammers, clearing his throat as he sets his eyes back on the open dossier of his life.

Steve follows his line of vision towards the folder and sighs, “Sorry, I should have put this up.” He says softly, reaching for the file and flipping it closed, “You don’t need to relive all of that.” 

Bucky follows him with his eyes as Steve moves back towards the stove, shoving the folder into one of the drawers, and becomes distracted by Steve’s naked back once more. 

“You’re okay with steak and potatoes? I can make corn on the cob too, if you want?”

Bucky tilts his head a little, blinking slowly as a realization washes over him, “I’m not sure if I like steak and potatoes… or corn on the cob for that matter.” A sober silence settles over the two men. Steve drops his head slightly as he leans against the counter, unsure of what to say as sadness fills him, “I’ve never had an option before.” 

Steve nods, “You used to like it.” He answers quietly, “Your mom made the best steak I’ve ever tasted.” 

“She did?”

Steve nods again, “She did. She was a great cook.” 

Bucky takes a deep breath and pushes it out slowly, ”I wish I could remember that.” 

“I’ll help you remember.” Steve says firmly, “I’ll help you figure this out. You aren’t alone any more.” 

Bucky stares down at the old wooden table, his discomfort from earlier twisting into a new flood of emotions. All he can offer is a meek _thanks_ , before Steve turns away, busying himself with making dinner to stop the urge of wanting to throw his arms around Bucky and never let him go. 

Steve’s words float around Bucky’s brain— over and over and over again. _You aren’t alone any more. You aren’t alone anymore. You aren’t alone anymore._

He really wants to believe them.

\----------

Bucky finds it increasingly hard to sleep. 

Not because of the nightmares so much, but lingering thoughts of Steve Rogers. As the days stretch on, days turning into weeks, and he gets a little more comfortable, his mind— and eyes— start to roam. Just being around Steve brings back a lot of memories— warm ones, happy ones— reminding him of who he used to be. 

He realizes just how much Steve has lost too. There’s no family members, no pictures, no hand written letters, just stock video of Captain America and the Howling Commandos— a far cry from who they both _really_ are.

Bucky opens up little by little as the days blend into nights, but he still doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t really know what to say, but he feels like Steve is okay with that. Steve doesn’t push him very hard, he doesn’t ask very many questions, he just lets Bucky talk when he wants to and hums old songs to fill the silence when Bucky doesn’t. 

That’s another thing that keeps Bucky up at night. Steve’s gentleness. Bucky isn’t used to gentle anymore, but he notices how Steve tiptoes around him, careful not to crowd his space. He takes wide berths around Bucky as he cooks or picks up around the house, not wanting to accidentally brush or touch him. He speaks calmly and slowly, his voice soft— but from what Bucky can remember, from what comes back to him anyway, Steve’s voice was always like that. Kind of dreamy. 

He thinks that might have been one of the reasons he was drawn to the blonde all those years ago. 

Even now, the juxtaposition of the strong, tall genetically engineered soldier and his natural softness is a little too much for Bucky to take. He wakes with rigid hard ons every morning as dreams of Steve’s mouth and hands and cock invade his dreams. It’s a good thing he’s already used to cold showers. 

Today is like all the others. Bucky steps out of the shower and peers out of the window, watching as Steve moves in and out of the corn fields, picking the ripe ears by hand and throwing them into baskets so he can take them into town. Bucky dresses quickly in some of Steve’s old clothes and moves downstairs, slipping into his combat boots. He walks out onto the porch, where the four legged Bucky runs up to greet him as Steve throws a full basket into the back of his truck effortlessly.

“You’re up early.” Steve calls over his shoulder, grabbing another empty basket, “You okay?”

Bucky nods as he scratches behind the excited dog’s ears, “Yeah. I just thought, maybe I could help.”

Steve squints back at him, the morning sun already high as he rests the basket against his hip, “You should probably rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I can’t sit around here forever,” Bucky offers, “I want to help.”

Steve smiles and then waves his hand, beckoning both of the Bucky’s to his side. He grabs another basket and hands it to Bucky as he approaches and takes off back towards the field with the Bucky’s close behind. He gives a crash course on just where to break the ear from the stalk before silence falls over them, nothing but the thud of an ear of corn falling into the baskets. 

“Have you um, have you heard from Sam?” Bucky asks, keeping his eyes on his fingers.

Steve shakes his head, “He called last night, but there’s nothing new. He’s going to keep his ear to the ground for me, make sure there isn’t any Hydra movement. You don’t have to worry, we’ll keep you safe if anyone comes for you.”

Bucky nods as he swallows and throws an ear into his basket. Sam Wilson. He’s visited a few times over the past few weeks, relaying information about what is and is not happening regarding Bucky. It’s a little tense between the two of them if he’s being perfectly honest. Sam doesn’t trust him, rightfully so. The entire time he visits, he keeps his eyes on Bucky, not letting him, or Steve for that matter, out of his sight. 

Bucky has no real reason not to like him, Sam is nice enough, and has every reason to be weary of him. It’s just the closeness between Steve and Sam that Bucky can’t seem to reconcile. They’re more than just _friends_ , although he’s never seen anything to the contrary, but he can just feel it. It makes him… jealous? _Is that what this is?_

He clears his throat, plucking another ear from it’s stalk, “Is he coming by?”

“Who? Sam?” Steve asks absentmindedly. 

“Yeah, you two seem close.”

Steve shrugs, “We’ve been through a lot together, he’s always had my back when I needed it, and even when I didn’t.”

“So you’re just, friends? Not, like…” his words trail off.

He feels Steve’s eyes on him, “Like what? Like we used to be?” This is the first time either one of them has acknowledged it. What they _used_ to be. Steve tilts his head as he watches Bucky struggle a little with the verbalization of it, “Do you remember us?” 

Bucky shrugs a little, clearly becoming uncomfortable, “A little.”

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing, just… sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Buck, it’s okay. It’s a different time now, you don’t have to— ”

Without another word, Bucky picks up his basket and walks off, heading back towards the truck to throw it into the back of the truck. Steve bows his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek before he peeks over his shoulder at the emotionally vulnerable man. He shouldn’t have pushed it— but, he’s remembering. He remembers _them_. A small smile creeps onto his face as he turns back and picks another ear of corn before throwing it into the basket at his feet. 

He remembers them.

\----------

Despite Bucky not speaking a word to him, Steve is glad that he decided to come with him as he drops off corn around the town. He stays in the car as Steve makes small talk with a few business owners and older folks around the sleepy, country town. Bucky watches as he smiles and laughs with them, and never takes a dime, offering to take the heavy baskets inside for them. Bucky can’t seem to take his eyes off of him after a while, the way he moves, the way he talks, that small smirk bringing back floods of memories from _before_.

As Bucky sits in the truck, watching him, he can feel the tips of Steve’s fingers brushing along his cheek. He can feel that wispy, blonde hair against his forehead and nose, he can feel how his heart used to flutter— just as it is now. The sun has set, and all Bucky can hear are the chirps of grasshoppers and the buzz of random bugs and wildlife in the distance. Steve looks good under low light like this— real good. 

Bucky drops his eyes to his hands, swallowing as Steve shakes the old man’s hand and turns back for the truck. He opens the creaky door and slides behind the wheel, before turning the key, cranking it to life. 

“You hungry? I can stop by—”

His sentence is cut off by a kiss. A quick, hard kiss that takes them both by surprise— especially Bucky. He sits back quickly, ending the chaste kiss with a light smack. His eyes are wide, same as Steve’s, his breath heavy, his heart pounding.

“I don’t- I’m sorry, I’m,” Bucky starts, instantly regretting the decision.

“No, no, don’t,” Steve says, running his hand through his hair, “It’s okay. It’s okay, really. Um,” he clears his throat nervously, “Yeah, okay.”

The drive home is silent.

They eat dinner in silence.

Heat flushes through Bucky the entire time as he picks at his food, his palms clammy. He’s not sure what this is either, this feeling, but he can’t seem to make any eye contact with Steve. Every time he tries, he skirts his eyes away from him, sends them back down to his plate or over at the four legged Bucky, or just stares a hole into the opposite wall. 

Steve stands and moves away from the table, turning on the faucet to start cleaning his plate. _You should say something._ He opens his mouth and turns slightly, but spins back around, facing the sink again. He closes his eyes and shakes his head as he rubs his forehead nervously. _Fuck_ , he starts to chuckle as his nerves get the best of him— he feels like a virgin again. 

“Buck,” he finally says, turning around and leaning against the counter, his hands on his hips, “It’s-”

The kitchen is empty. Steve takes a deep breath as he stares at the half eaten plate of food on the table before he sends his eyes towards the golden retriever tucked in his bed, his tail wagging, his brown eyes set on Steve. He smiles softly as the dog bounds over to him and reaches out to rub his head before turning back towards the sink. 

“Shit.”

\----------

The moonlight creeps into Bucky’s room through the window, splashing over the bed and creating dark shadows from the furniture. The breeze is soft and sweet as it plays with the thin curtains. Bucky blinks up at the ceiling slowly, his lips slightly parted, his flesh fingers slowly rubbing his metal ones absentmindedly as he takes long, deep breaths. 

Steve’s lips are so soft. His mouth warm— _inviting_. Just like it used to be, all those years ago. He remembers that, specifically. The warmth and the softness. 

He swallows as his eyes drift around the room, replaying the kiss over and over until a wondrous smile spreads on his face. He rolls over onto his side and blinks slowly as he gazes out over the vast cornfield, the stalks swaying gently with the breeze. He closes his eyes and tucks his hands underneath the pillow as he takes another deep breath, his nerves and anxieties after the last few weeks finally starting to subside.

Finally. 

\----------

_Soldat blinks slowly as he pulls out his Glock, pulling back on the chamber to load a bullet. The man beneath him, bloody and beaten, tries his best to crawl away from the assassin. His fingers are broken, his leg shattered, but still, through blurry vision from the blood in his eyes, he still pulls his heavy body along the floor— fighting until the very end._

_Bucky tilts his head as he watches the man cry and beg as he drags his body. He doesn’t understand why they beg. They all beg, as if it’s going to make a difference or change his directive._

_“Please don’t do this! Please!” the man cries as Bucky takes a few steps towards him, “I’m sorry! God, please!”_

_Bucky steps over the man’s body, his heavy boots on either side of the mans’ hips. He lifts his gun, pointing it straight at the man’s head as he lifts his hands to cover his face._

_“Please! Don’t! I have a daughter— a wife! Plea-”_

Bucky sits straight up at the sound of the gun firing rattles through his brain. He pants hard as he blinks rapidly into the darkness. He slams his hand down on the mattress, desperately searching for his gun or his knife, throwing the pillows to the floor in panic when he doesn’t find either one. His eyes are wide, his brain racing a million miles a second as he pushes his hands along the sheets, searching, searching, searching— more panic rising in his chest and throat. 

_Fuck! Where is it!_

He jumps from the bed and rushes into the bathroom as his Hydra instinct takes over again. Without a second thought he punches the mirror, breaking it into a thousand pieces and picks up a large shard, spinning around on his heel to face the door. He grips the jagged glass hard in his palm, not even noticing the blood that starts to drip from his hand as he stands stark still, blinking into the darkness. 

_He always has to be ready. Always. There’s always a threat, everywhere, all around him. He has to be ready._

Minutes pass, but he won’t move. He just stands there, in the dark, ready to strike as he blinks at the door. It’s eerily silent, nothing but soft noises of the house settling. He blinks, once, twice, three times but then suddenly tenses as the hair on his arm stands straight up. There’s movement— someone’s— 

The door flies open, the doorframe splintering from the force, wood flying around. A figure rushes at him, but Bucky is still quick. He sidesteps the man and swings the shard of glass wildly, bringing it down quick and hard before he flips it to his metal hand. The man catches his arm and punches him in the gut before tackling him, pushing them both through the bathroom door. 

They fall to the floor with a loud thud as the door breaks and falls to the ground. The man on top of him is heavy and strong, but Bucky wrestles one of his arms free and elbows his attacker in his ribs, drawing a loud grunt out of him. They continue to wrestle, throwing punches and kicks, each trying to gain control of the situation until the attacker gasps suddenly. 

“Shit, Buck!”

Bucky flips them over in the man’s split second weakness and wraps his hand around his throat, “Who the hell are you?” he growls, “How do you know my name?” 

The man beneath him struggles wildly, bucking his hips and kicking his legs as he grabs Bucky’s wrist, trying to pull it away from his neck, “Bucky! It’s me! Bucky, stop!”

Bucky tightens his grip. His pupils are blown as sweat drips from his forehead, his hair matted to his face. He snarls his lip as the man continues to fight underneath him, slapping at his face and metal arm. 

“Bucky,” his voice is strained, “It’s— me, it’s— Steve. You— _know—_ me, Buck.”

_Steve._

_It’s Steve._

_You know that name._

Bucky releases his grip. Confusion twists on his face as he stares down into a pair of familiar blue eyes. His breath gets heavy again as his eyes drift away from the face that’s haunted his dreams for the past seventy years and zero in on a spot on the floor. His head starts to tick— jerking violently as he blinks. 

Steve coughs hard and drags in deep breaths as he forces air back into his lungs. He rolls over onto his side as Bucky falls off of him and backs away, dragging himself up onto his butt. Steve reaches for the sink, pulling himself up halfway and turns on the water, cupping his hand underneath and bringing it to his mouth to drink to try and ease the violent coughs that rack his body. He falls back to the floor and closes his eyes as he pants, clearing his throat.

“Buck,” he starts, swallowing hard, “It’s okay. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Steve crawls towards Bucky as he huddles in the corner, his lips trembling as he continues to just blink, unaware of where he is, or _who_ he is, “Bucky,” Steve says softly, “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m sorry— I thought… I heard glass breaking and I thought somebody was coming for you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He reaches out to touch him, but Bucky shrugs away from him, just like he had weeks ago, and Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach. They’ll have to start all over. 

“Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve,” he continues, his voice staying soft and gentle as he tries to calm him down, “You know me and I know you. You’re safe here, I promise.”

Bucky shifts his gaze to Steve’s, his body shaky, his mind scrambled. His eyes start to sting as emotion builds in them. _You’re safe here, I promise. You know me and I know you. It’s me, it’s Steve._ A tear trickles down his cheek as his face breaks from fear and emotion. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words don’t come right away. He just starts to sob. 

Steve swallows hard again as his own eyes fill with tears at the scene before him. He always hated seeing Bucky in pain. He reaches forward again, slowly, not wanting to scare him any further. He slips his hand against Bucky’s cheek and cups the side of his face gently, rubbing his thumb softly against his chin.

“I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who,” Bucky mumbles as he looks away from him, “I don’t know where I am, I don’t—” his words rushed and slightly slurred.

“It’s okay,” Steve starts, pulling Bucky into his chest, hugging him tightly, “I’ll take care of you.”

Steve releases a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding when Bucky wraps his arms around his waist. 

\----------

The sun breaks into the small bathroom and covers the two bodies that are fast asleep. Steve’s back leans against the wall, his chin resting on the top of Bucky’s head as he clings to Steve’s body, his arms still wrapped around his waist. Steve is the first to stir, rolling his shoulders and stretching as his back muscles start to scream in dull pain. He rolls his head forward and moans softly as he opens his eyes, blinking furiously as he tries to adjust to the bright light. 

The bathroom is destroyed. Water is splashed all over the floor, bits of glass and wood from the door are scattered everywhere. The door itself hangs from just the lower hinge, but this isn’t the first time he’s had to replace it— and with Bucky here, it won’t be the last. He sweeps his hand over Bucky’s forehead, pushing his matted hair away from his face, and eyes the dried blood at the corner of his mouth, the random scratches and cuts on his cheeks. 

Bathroom be damned— his boy needs a bath. 

He crawls out from underneath Bucky, causing him to stir. He stands and holds out his hand as Bucky wakes and rubs his pounding head with his hand. He wiggles his fingers as Bucky finally blinks up at him, a little confused but obviously in a better place than he was last night. Bucky doesn't hesitate, he just slips his hand into Steve’s and lets him pull him up onto his feet. 

Bucky lets Steve pull him through his room and down the hall before they both turn into Steve’s room. Steve leads him into the bathroom and shoo’s out the four legged Bucky before he turns on the water to the tub. He pushes his hand into the stream, waiting until it’s warm before he shoves the stopper into the drain so the small tub can fill with water. 

He stands again, and turns back to Bucky, where he grabs his hand in his again, “Do you trust me?” Steve asks. Bucky drops his eyes away from Steve as he swallows, but nods seconds later, “Can you say it please?”

“I trust you.” Bucky mumbles.

“Is it okay if I touch you? Undress you, so I can give you a bath?”

Bucky links their eyes again and nods, “Yes.”

Steve reaches for the hem of the old white t-shirt covering Bucky’s torso and bunches it in his hands, pulling softly. Bucky helps him by lifting his arms and letting Steve pull the soft material over his head before he sends his eyes back to the floor. Steve reaches for the waistband of the sweatpants at Bucky’s hips, careful not to touch his exposed skin and pushes them down his hips and thighs, letting them pool at Bucky’s feet. 

He holds out his hand again for Bucky to take and holds it tightly as Bucky steps into the warm bath. He hisses as the temperature shocks his skin— he’s still getting used to hot baths and showers— but sits slowly, watching as the water pulls the dried blood from his skin. 

“Okay?” Steve asks gently, grabbing a washcloth and his body wash.

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m gonna touch you, on your shoulder, okay? Just so you can get used to it.”

Steve’s voice barely reaches Bucky’s ears, it's so soft. Bucky nods, but keeps his eyes focused forward, remembering to just keep breathing. He flinches slightly when he feels Steve’s fingers graze over his shoulder. He closes his eyes as Steve’s fingers start to drift down his arm and counts slowly— _you’re safe here. You’re safe here._

Steve keeps his eyes on the side of Bucky’s face as he softly, slowly brushes his fingers up and down Bucky’s bicep and shoulder, “I’m gonna move to your chest, okay?”

Bucky nods quickly, his eyes closed.

Steve flattens his palm on Bucky’s shoulder and pushes it over his clavicle, stopping once he reaches the center of his broad chest. Scars are littered over Bucky’s pecs and stomach, down his flesh arm and over his thighs and calves. This isn’t the same body that Steve remembers— years of damage taking its toll, but he’ll love it anyway. Each scar. Each bullet and stab wound. The deep, jagged, red and purple scar where his flesh meets metal. He’ll love it all. 

He leaves his hand flattened to Bucky’s chest, watching as it rises and falls with each slow, deliberate breath that Bucky takes, “Does that feel okay?”

“ _Yes_.”

Bucky’s answer is rushed, his body a little shaky, but he’s not lying— it does feel okay. He opens his eyes as Steve shifts behind him and blinks at the wall as the warm water envelopes his body. Steve pulls his hand away but replaces it seconds later, this time adding his second hand into the mix. He drags the washcloth along Bucky’s arm, the soap bubbling on his skin as Steve washes him slowly. 

It takes a while, but Bucky finally relaxes, slipping a little lower in the water. He lets his head rest on the edge of the tub and lets his eyes close again as Steve methodically bathes him, not leaving one inch of skin untouched. Steve lifts each leg, washes each toe, sweeps along the back of his neck, and even gets behind Bucky’s ears. It feels _nice_ — it’s been a long time since Bucky has felt _clean_. 

Steve moves to Bucky’s hair once he’s finished with his body, sinking his long fingers into the dark, long tresses. He massages Bucky’s scalp slowly, tilting his head to the left and then the right as he pushes the shampoo through his hair.

Bucky moans.

Steve smiles softly, “You always did like it when I washed your hair.” he offers.

Bucky opens his eyes, “Really?”

“Yes. It was much shorter back then, but you loved it all the same.”

Bucky stares at his feet as he wiggles his toes, “We used to be together?”

“We did. We couldn’t tell anybody because of the times we were in, but we loved each other very much. I loved you very, very much, Bucky.” his voice drops away for a few seconds, “I still do.”

Bucky turns his head to face Steve for the first time since his bath has started. His eyes bounce back and forth between Steve’s as his lips part, “You do?” he asks, breathlessly.

“I do.” Steve answers firmly, “I’ve loved you my entire life.”

Bucky stares at Steve as the words wash over him. _I’ve loved you my entire life._ That’s why he couldn’t forget Steve; that’s why he’s continued to dream of him after all of time— all of these years. He loves him too. He always has. 

Before he can stop himself, he pulls himself up on the edge of the tub and crashes his lips to Steve’s. He doesn’t stop like last time in the truck. He keeps kissing him, moaning softly as his emotion— _relief—_ fills his chest. 

Steve leans into the kiss, taking control of it as he cups Bucky’s face in both of his hands. He sweeps his tongue over Bucky’s bottom lip before licking into his mouth, massaging the roof with his tongue. He slides his velvet tongue over Bucky’s, before sucking on it slowly, pulling a growl out of the unsure man. They both stand slowly, Bucky reaching out to grab Steve’s hips while Steve still holds his face in his hands. 

Bucky steps out of the tub and crushes his wet body to Steve’s as the kiss deepens, the desperation for both starting to seep through. Steve drags his lips down Bucky’s chin and attaches to his neck, sucking lightly as he nudges Bucky’s face and head upward. Bucky grunts as his body starts to tingle with the movements of Steve’s tongue. He thrusts his hips forward involuntarily, having to grab onto Steve’s shoulder as a jolt of electricity flashes through him. 

Steve pushes them into the bedroom, his hands and lips never leaving Bucky’s skin as they stumble to the bed. Bucky sits on the edge of the mattress and lets Steve slowly crawl on top of him, their lips smacking loudly as he lays on his back. Bucky rolls his shoulders as he gets comfortable, shutting his eyes as Steve nips along his neck again, pulling out louder moans from him.

Steve kisses down Bucky’s chest and flattens his palm to his skin again, just as an anchor. He sweeps his tongue over Bucky’s hard abs, over the light bruises and scratches that have popped up over his skin from the night before. He takes his time— holding Bucky’s side as he jumps and shivers from Steve’s touch. He continues to push lower, down to Bucky’s lower stomach, right into the rough patch of dark hair that covers his lower half. 

Bucky writhes underneath Steve as his chest brushes over Bucky’s rigid cock. His hips thrust upward again as Steve runs his short nails down Bucky’s thighs lightly, his hot breath washing over Bucky’s sensitive tip. 

“Can I touch you?” Steve asks breathlessly, his chest heaving. 

“ _God, yes._ ” Bucky hisses, slamming his head back into the mattress, “ _Please_.”

Steve palms him, dragging his hand up and down Bucky’s length slowly. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and moans inwardly as Bucky starts to rock his hips into his hand, his pants and groans growing louder with each pass. He was always _expressive_ . Steve hisses as cum dribbles from Bucky’s slit and he’s transported right back to 1937— the look of him, his _sounds._ They’ve haunted him. 

Steve continues to pump him as Bucky draws his legs up on the mattress, them falling open and then closing slightly as his hips push upward. He watches as Bucky tilts his chin towards the ceiling, his eyes slammed shut, his mouth falling open as his body rolls and flexes with the lust that unfurls within him. Steve slides his free hand up his stomach and flattens it on Bucky’s chest again— just as he lowers his mouth over him. 

Bucky moans loudly as his hips jut up into Steve’s mouth. So warm. So _wet_ . He digs his fingers into Steve’s blonde hair, pulling on it as shivers wrack his body. He’s not used to this, all of this touch, all of this _sensation_. He’s not used to _feeling_ it. His fuse proves to be a short one.

He comes unexpectedly, surprising Steve. That’s new, but still just as beautiful. Steve bites down into his lip harder as he strokes Bucky faster, watching as long, hot ribbons spurt from his cock. His own cock twitches, and he releases Bucky from his grasp, shoving his hand down his pants to grab and stroke himself as Bucky’s dick jumps. He pulls his pants down his thighs and kicks them with his feet before he grabs Bucky’s hips and turns him ninety degrees, the length of the bed. 

He crawls over Bucky again, leaning down to capture his lips with his own in a sweet kiss. He lets out a hard breath when his dick grazes along Bucky’s, sending a shiver right down his spine. He has to take it easy though, go slow— he doesn’t want to overstimulate him, “Are you okay?” He whispers, kissing Bucky’s cheek, and then along his jawline. 

Bucky’s eyes are still closed, his breath ragged and heavy, but he nods, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? I can stop.”

“No!” Bucky’s answer is quick as he pops his eyes open. He cups Steve’s cheek in his hand and brushes his thumb over those swollen, pink lips, “It’s been so long.”

“I know,” Steve whispers back, kissing him again, “I know baby. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me. I want this, I _need_ it.” Bucky pushes upward and kisses Steve again as he pushes his hands up into his shirt, just to feel him, “Please.”

Steve smiles. He kisses him quickly before he sits back on his knees and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor, “You were always insatiable.”

Bucky smiles. 

Steve brushes his fingers down Bucky's chest again, just feeling his skin. He grabs Bucky’s wrists and pulls him up into his lap, “You used to love this position.”

“Yeah?” Bucky smiles wider.

Steve nods, “It’s just that I used to be the one riding you. I was smaller then.”

“I know. That’s how I remember you.”

Steve slides his fingers between Bucky’s cheeks, keeping his eyes on him as he tenses and hisses at the sensation of his pads against his hole. Steve circles him slowly, pushing _just_ barely to add a little pressure, “You tell me if I hurt you, okay? Bucky, I mean it.”

“I will,” Bucky nods furiously, pushing his hips into Steve’s, “I will.”

Steve grabs himself and centers at Bucky’s opening, pushing again gently. Bucky wraps his arms around his neck and nuzzles against his cheek as a host of emotions flood through him. Steve pushes harder— both of them grunting and sounding as he breaks into Bucky’s body for the first time in what feels like forever. 

He doesn’t move right away, he just lets Bucky feel it, feel him— _adjust_. Steve’s breath starts to rush a little as Bucky’s warmth envelopes him, but he still doesn't move, not until Bucky does. Bucky lifts, and then sinks down on him, taking more of him in— but not all. He lifts again, and sinks again, gradually working his way up to having all of Steve’s cock inside of him. Once he does, it’s a glorious feeling— being so _full_. 

Steve settles back on his butt, stretching out his legs as Bucky starts to find a nice rhythm— it all coming back to him. Bucky digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulders as he moves, his head falling back on his neck. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as Steve grips his thighs, squeezing gently before his hand drifts back to Bucky’s cock. Bucky’s mouth falls open again as Steve grabs him and starts to pump him again, sweeping his thumb over Bucky’s tip. 

Steve wants him to come again, he doesn’t care if it’s too fast or if he gets to. He just wants Bucky to feel good. So he jerks his dick, picking up his pace. He thrusts his hips up into him, each one harder than the last. It doesn’t take long before Bucky is howling again, his hips jerking, muscles flexing and tightening as Steve pushes him to another release. 

Another orgasm washes over Bucky, Steve’s hand still pulling on his cock as it spits again, splashing onto Steve’s stomach. Bucky’s hands go limp at his sides as he swallows hard, Steve leaning into him again to pepper his chest with hot kisses as the last drips of his release seeps out of him. 

Steve lays him down on his back, pulling out of him slowly before he nestles next to him. He watches Bucky as he catches his breath, his eye lashes spread out on his reddened cheeks. He places his hand in the center of Bucky’s chest again— just to anchor him. Steve sweeps his lips and nose over Bucky’s cheek and jaw, blinking down at the hand in the center of Bucky’s chest to watch it rise and fall with the rushed, deep breaths. 

“You okay, baby?” he whispers, placing slow kisses along Bucky’s cheek. Bucky nods, his lips parted, eyes still closed as he drags air in and out of his nose and mouth, “I need you to say it, Buck.”

“I’m okay.” Bucky breathes, scattered, quick laughter dribbling out of his mouth, “I’m more than okay, Steve.”

Steve smiles wide, dropping his lips to Bucky’s again, “You know the other position you used to like?” he whispers huskily.

“Hmm?”

Steve sits up on his knees and grabs Bucky’s wrists, pulling him upwards. He settles Bucky on his hands and knees before he moves around to get behind him. Steve slips his right hand down Bucky’s spine, his left sweeping over Bucky’s ass and hip to calm him. He pushes gently, coaxing Bucky to fall into the mattress, pressing the side of his face into the sheets. Bucky’s arms go limp at his sides, fingers flexing gently as he takes gentle breaths. 

Steve presses his fingers against Bucky’s wet, pulsing hole, pushing gently until his two fingers disappear inside. Bucky lunges forward, his back arching slowly as he groans at the invasion. Steve feels him clench around his fingers and a shudder streaks down his spine, a small huff of his own escaping his lips. 

He curls his fingers, watching as Bucky’s face twists in pleasure as he draws his hand up by his face to grasp the sheets between his fingers. Steve pumps his fingers slowly as he drops his free hand to his dick, squeezing himself gently as Bucky’s groans get louder and more desperate. 

Bucky’s a sight like this— ass up and spread, his face flushed red, eyes slammed closed, mouth open. His hair is a mess, falling over his face and the sheets, a bit sticking to his forehead a sweat pops up on his skin. Steve buries a third finger and snaps his eyes to Bucky’s face again when he mewls, the noise wet and choked— _strained_.

“Buck—"

“Fine,” Bucky growls, pushing a quick burst of hot air out of his mouth to blow his hair out of his face, “Keep going.”

Keep going Steve does. He pulls his long, thick fingers out of Bucky’s warmth and grabs for the lube again, squirting more into his palm. He strokes his dick again before pressing his wet fingers against Bucky’s hole, making the man clench as he primes him. He grabs Bucky’s hips with both hands and pulls him back into him, sliding his cock between Bucky’s ass cheeks. Bucky slides forward so Steve’s dick falls and pushes against his awaiting hole. 

Bucky wiggles— and Steve can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest and throat. Some things never change. Steve inches forward, grabbing the base of his dick as he starts to press, feeling Bucky push his toes into Steve’s calves. 

“God, Steve. _Please, please, please_ — _ah!_ ”

Bucky hisses when the head of Steve’s cock pushes inside of him. Steve stops for only a second before he’s pushing again, sliding, sliding, sliding in until Bucky’s ass is flush against his hips— his cock completely absorbed. He pulls back, watching himself reemerge before he sinks back into Bucky, the chorus of Bucky’s sounds intoxicating him. 

Bucky pushes forward with each thrust of Steve’s hips, his eyelashes wet and stuck together as saliva dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. He lets Steve fuck him into oblivion— each stroke harder than the last. A deep red flushes Bucky’s skin as his hard dick slaps against his stomach, his balls tight. He lets his arms go limp by his sides again, lets the emotion fill up in his chest and spill out of his eyes as Steve presses deep, deep, deep. 

The pressure builds in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, his lust pooling in his belly as Steve’s fingers brush over his sack and wrap around his rigid cock. Long strokes of Steve’s hand make Bucky shiver, makes dribbles of cum drip down onto the sheet below him as Steve fucks into him— his hips, his thrusts unrelenting. Bucky is soon crashing back into him, wanting more, needing more— wanting him deeper— wanting Steve to just crawl inside of him.

Tears slip down his cheeks as he wraps his metal fingers around Steve’s knee, digging his fingers into Steve’s skin. Steve starts to falter, his chest tight, his sounds bitten-off and strained as Bucky’s hole clamps down around his warmth. Bucky tenses, freezing quickly before he comes again, hot ribbons spilling out over the sheets over and over. He buries his face into the mattress as his cock jerks and the white hot molten of his orgasm spreads throughout his body. 

Steve is right behind him, unable to control himself as Bucky spasms beneath and around him. He shoots into Bucky, slamming his hips into him, coaxing more and more of his cum into Bucky’s asshole. He pulls out of him, just to watch Bucky’s wet, fluttering hole push his spunk back out, and watch it slip down to his balls— an absolute _vision._ Steve tugs his cock with a firm grip, another wave of his orgasm washing through him as he eyes Bucky’s fucked, weeping hole.

Bucky curls his toes, and then stretches them out as a calm moves through him. The rush of his blood starts to relax, his breath stilling, his heart rate returning to normal as the serene peace of post-orgasm sets in. He topples over, his body crashing against the mattress before Steve pulls him up towards the pillows. He’s covered in Steve’s warmth as the lean man wraps his arms and legs around him, pushing his nose into Bucky’s damp, long hair. 

Bucky starts to hum with each breath as it grows deep and long, sleep pulling at him. Steve nuzzles into his neck, his warm lips pressing kisses into his shoulder and down his flesh arm as he holds Bucky close. It’s not long before Bucky gives in, letting the dark and stillness of sleep seep into his body as Steve brushes his fingertips along his warm skin.

\----------

A loud knock sounds through the house, quickly followed by deep, loud barks. Steve sits up quickly, listening hard as the front door opens and then a familiar voice hushes the dog. _Shh, where’s your dad? Huh?_

Sam. 

Sam never stops by without a call first. 

Steve throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands, grabbing his sweats and pulling them up his legs before he’s out of the room and down the stairs, “What’s wrong?” he asks as he meets Sam and Sharon at the bottom of the stairs. 

“They’re coming for him. I don’t know when exactly, but they’re coming.”

Sam holds out the shield to him but Steve shakes his head, “No, that’s yours now. Tell me what you know.”

“Not much,” Sharon starts, “We don’t even really know _who_ is coming, but we picked up on some Russian chatter yesterday. A lot of it was code but we think Hydra is fanning out across the globe to collect the missing Winter Soldiers. They know that there’s two here in America, they know Bucky is in New York State, just not exactly where— _yet_.”

“Scott and Bruce are on their way. T’Challa too.” Sam says, “Shuri is tracking all planes and ships that hit the coast, as soon as she hears anything that looks promising, she’ll let us know.”

A creak sounds from the stairs and they all turn, looking up at Bucky as he pulls a shirt over his head, “They’re coming for me?”

“Bucky,” Steve starts, “Why don’t you— ”

“Tell me. Are they coming?”

Steve lowers his head and he places his hands on his hips, “Yes.”

“When?”

“We don’t know yet.” Sam answers.

“I’ll go.” Bucky says, brushing past them.

Steve grabs his arm, turning him back around, “You aren’t going anywhere. I meant what I said, you’re safe here.”

“We got reinforcement on the way,” Sharon says, “They won’t get to you. We’ll make sure of it.”

Steve rests his forehead on Bucky’s, closing his eyes as he places his hand on his chest, “I love you.” He whispers. 

“I love you too. That’s about the only thing I know.” Bucky whispers back, his voice breaking. 

“We’ll handle this together, okay?” Steve says, “Plus, Sam and I owe Hydra a favor.”

Sam balls his fists as he rolls his shoulders, reminiscing back to their time with Rumlow, “That we do.”

Steve goes to pull away, but Bucky stops him, grabbing the back of his neck, “I’m with you til the end of the line, pal.”

Steve lets out a breath, nodding slowly, “Til the end of the line, jerk.”


End file.
